Retail Therapy or How Nine Got His Clothes
by Yavannasgrandmom
Summary: The newly regenerated doctor has some trouble getting his thoughts together. But with the proper stimulation, it all comes back to him.


Title: Retail Therapy (or How Nine Got His Clothes)

Summary: The newly regenerated doctor has some trouble getting his thoughts together. But with the proper stimulation, it all comes back to him.

Characters: Ninth Doctor, echo of Eight, Rose.

Rating: K

Word Count: 2,522

Betas: Pacejunkie from LJ (early version), Novindalf (who in addition to normal beta duties, translated my American slang into British slang) Thanks to both of you!

Disclaimer: Characters owned by the BBC. Story is for fun, not profit. But if anyone at BBC wants to give me a job, that's okay.

A/N. I usually write humor/parody, but I decided to take a stab at a regular ol' dramatic fanfic (hopefully with a little humor). My first fic for Doctor Who.

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I think I might need clothes. I'm not sure where I am, or even who I am. All I know as I lie on the floor, looking at the torn velvet sleeve of my jacket, is that I need a new one.

But I am tired, so tired. Maybe I'll just sleep. I look over the sleeve again. A bit of the shirt pokes through, and it's in a terrible state as well. We've obviously been in the wars, my clothes and I. I need new clothes. Where does one get clothes? I puzzle over this for a minute. I'm sure I used to know that.

First step is to get up and figure out where I am. I stretch, expecting to feel sore, though I'm not sure why. And not only sore. Injured. Burned. I'm not, and it surprises me. I push myself up on my elbows and look around.

There are books scattered everywhere. Have I been in an earthquake? San Francisco, 1906. Yes, I was there. It wasn't really an earthquake. But there were explosions and a lot of tectonic plate disruption, I recall. Am I still there? Is this San Francisco?

Little fires burn all around me. I shake my head, trying to clear it. I'm sure I have an old Halotron fire extinguisher somewhere around here….though if I have a Halotron extinguisher, it's unlikely to be 1906. Scratch San Francisco.

I close my eyes and slip into darkness. When I open them again, the fires are out. The books are gone. I shift, scanning the room. Where are my books? I sit up and bump my head on the underside of the console.

The blow makes me wince, but the fog clears a little, and I realize where I am. Of course, I'm in the TARDIS. I reach up and feel the top of the console. It's comforting, though just a little unfamiliar. Everything seems to be in the wrong place.

I search for a memory, an image. Nothing. Oh well, it'll come to me. As I pull myself up, I see not only are my current clothes torn and singed, but they don't even fit. My feet are bare. Where are my shoes? I need my shoes. I feel myself grow irritated. Who would take someone's shoes? I've got a vague feeling this has happened before.

I stand there, leaning on the control console, trying to puzzle things out as the TARDIS repairs herself around me. She's in the process of finishing the walls. No more library. That explains the lack of books. She never liked the library/control room combination; she'd frequently get rid of books or re-shelve them in the wrong spot. Since I'd obviously been out cold, I guess she took the opportunity to redecorate according to her own liking.

Coral? She's putting up big beams of coral. I shrug. Never knew she liked the 'under the sea' theme. And I didn't think she hated the library theme so much she'd go and burn it down. Wait… that's not right. That's not it….

I blink a few more times, slowly, and try to think. I turn towards the console. She's changed it. I can't find anything. Where is the monitor? My hands move about the controls, and I memorize their new locations. Finding the monitor, I switch it on and scan outside.

It appears to be some form of low level civilization. There's an artificial waterfall. I find myself staring at it, aimlessly calculating the amount of water dropping every .03 seconds. I tear myself away from the waterfall and look around the exterior of the TARDIS, all sides. It definitely looks familiar, but I can't quite place it. I go back to the waterfall and calculate for a few more minutes while my brain reboots.

Oh of course! Cardiff. Why did I land in Cardiff? Or did she do that? I'm guessing by the architecture it's very late 20th or very early 21st century. I haven't been to Earth in this time period in ages.

I release my grip on the control panel and try to stand alone. There's a flash in my head… headache, bad headache. Then a flash of memory. There had been an explosion.

The memories come rushing in like a tidal wave, bringing all sorts of debris with them. My thoughts are still not clear and the order of events is jumbled, but the content is complete. It had thrown us, the explosion which was far more than an explosion. I expected to die. I was ready to die-- really die, that is; no coming back. We were all going to die.

But I did not die. My ship and I were thrown through time and space, burning. I had been injured, but had pulled myself up, reached for the controls, and plugged in some coordinates. It had to be a lower level civilization. The higher ones were all being rocked by this explosion, some destroyed, but far more saved.

So many images, all going fuzzy now... I can't remember if I regenerated then, or after I put in the coordinates. I have a vague recollection of trying to navigate, but I'd collapsed. I had to give it all up. I knew if she survived, she'd take us someplace. Someplace safe.

I guess this was 'safe'. "But why Cardiff?" I ask her. I feel her hum all around me, as she heals. And I feel myself slump back to the floor. I'm not finished healing. I let go. She knows what she's doing.

Darkness comes, again.

A few hours later, and the pieces are falling into place. I feel more myself now, after some sleep. Despite her changes, my hands move across the TARDIS controls, and I recognize my ship and remember how to fly her.

There are still a few little bits missing. For one thing, I still don't have shoes. But I am quite pleased to remember where one gets clothes. Shops! The details of how one gets clothes at a shop still escapes me, but I know it will come to me in time.

I prepare to exit the TARDIS in search of a shop in Cardiff, but what I see on the monitor stops me. People. There are people all round us, staring and pointing.

900 years of phone box travel, and this is the first time I recall the TARDIS attracting such a crowd. We usually just blend right in. I knit my brow, wondering what sort event is drawing people to the TARDIS. Is she emitting visible radiation as she regenerates? I switch to a view that enables me to see her exterior. I don't see anything unusual. I shrug. Other cities have shops, don't they? I'd go to London. In a bigger city, people see less.

With great satisfaction I release the hand brake and we're off, travelling. A short distance, but still alive and still travelling.

I materialize at the entrance of an alley and step outside. Definitely early 21st century, definitely London. And definitely close to a shop. It looks close to closing time, which is convenient; I hate shopping to begin with and it's worse in a crowd. A woman passes by, and looks me up and down.

"What are you looking at?" I say, none too politely. Oh my, that's a change. It seems I'm a bit ruder this time… but it works, as she scurries off. I suppose I do look odd in the rags I'm wearing. I stop, suddenly. What does the rest of me look like? Perhaps I have a third eye growing out of my head. Or two noses. I could be tall and blue. I run my hands across my face, and it seems normal, other than a few parts being larger than the last time. Clothes first, then I'd find a mirror.

My sonic is still in my pocket. As destroyed as my coat is, at least the pockets are intact. I do reinforce them, and it's paid off this time. I'll have to put new pockets in whatever clothing I find; humans have dreadfully small pockets.

The sonic feels comforting in my hand. I run it across a lock on a side door to Hendricks, and we're in.

I am walking through a basement area, full of partially dressed shop window dummies. There are boxes of clothes waiting to be taken upstairs and put on display. I open one, and find women's lingerie. "No," I say to myself. My fashion sense has never been good, but even I know that won't do.

I wonder if there is anything here that would suit me. "Suit me, get it?" I say to one of the dummies. I chuckle at my own joke. "Suit me, I like that."

I redirect my attention to the clothing. I really do hate shopping. And nothing is appealing to me.

To heck with it, I'd just grab what was nearby. I look over my legs, feel my waist, and estimate a size. I find a box of men's undergarments and take what's necessary. A few boxes later, I find black jeans in the right size, and yank out a pair. That will do. No fuss. The next box conveniently holds men's jumpers. I grab three, different colors, and put one on. I stuff the others into my old jacket pocket.

Shoes, shoes... perhaps none are down here. I find a box marked "Distressed."

Distressed? A distressed box? "What does a box have to be distressed about?" I ask the nearest dummy. And I stop. I look back at the dummy. I could have sworn it had turned to look at me; but there it stands, as stiff and still as it should be. I shake my head. Regeneration sickness still not completely passed, I figure. I open the "Distressed" box, more out of curiosity than necessity.

Fantastic! It's got a pile of leather jackets, with pockets. They look like they've been through hell and back. I knit my brow, both puzzled and amused; only humans would try to make a new garment look like it was ready for the dustbin and call it 'fashion.' But I do like the pockets. I run my hands over the material, and it seems strong, and easy enough to modify to my needs. I shake my arms about, estimating their length and the size of my torso, and I pick out a jacket.

I'm pulling the tag off of one side, when I again catch movement from the corner of my eye. I turn, slowly. The dummy is moving.

"Hello," I say, smiling, more for my own benefit than the dummy's. I grab the sonic and scan, as I back away slowly.

It appears I'm opening my new life with a re-run. And if the Nestene Consciousness is here, after the war, it's definitely not good. It wasn't good before the war, and it's even worse this time. The sonic scan indicates this dummy is being controlled by a relay on the roof. I can take care of that, but I'd have to return to the TARDIS.

I keep backing, and find a door to one side. I grab the handle, open it, and quickly slide into the room behind me. I really hope this room is not a storage locker for shop window dummies. I sonic the lock shut, and turn.

There are no dummies, just one figure, in a crumpled heap on the floor. I bend down, and feel for a pulse. He's dead. I sonic the door open again, and pop my head out to read the sign on the other side. "Hello again!" I say to the dummy waiting outside. Before it has a chance to attack, I've read "CEO" and shut the door, re-sonic-ing the lock. I hear the bang as the dummy's hand impacts the door.

I scan the room and am quite glad to see it has another exit, and there are no animated dummies on the other side.

With each passing moment, I'm feeling more stable; in part due to adrenaline and in part due to familiar circumstances. Back in the TARDIS I quickly assemble an explosive device, capable of taking out the relay. My feet are still cold. I suppose shoes will have to wait. The shop isn't safe, and where else could I--

I stop, feeling rather like an idiot. The TARDIS has a wardrobe. That's what I couldn't remember. I shake my head, both irritated and amused with myself, and finish the control, estimating the size of my feet as I work. A quick pop to the wardrobe, and I grab the first pair of shoes I see that will fit. At least my feet are warm again.

Back to Hendricks. I slip in the same back door I used earlier. It seems the store is now closed; that's good. If these things are ambulatory, it's better no stupid humans are blundering about, waiting to be killed.

I hear a voice. I spoke too soon; there's one of the stupid apes now.

"Derek, is this you?" comes a female voice, and she sounds like she's barely controlling her panic.

I peek around the corner, into the area where I'd first seen the moving dummies. She's nearly cornered by them, backed against a wall. There is a slight opening. Why doesn't she just run?

It's always up to me to bail these people out, isn't it?

I grab her hand just as a dummy raise its arm for the kill. She looks at me, shocked.

"Run," I say.

We run.


End file.
